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It was incredibly unlike you to have made such a klutzy mistake. Except, it wasn’t really your fault and Mulciber had distracted you while whisking the potion in that abandoned classroom, and--
Apparently, wizards are fairly durable to physical impact, but not burns. And cooling potions were still hot when they were only half-made. And now you suffer from burning, dripping cooling salve sliding down your thigh and past your knee.
And when the cauldron tipped, you had made a half-aborted motion to catch it, but instead knocked your cutting board and knife, leaving them clattering to the group, but not before your pristinely sharpened blade sliced a clean, shallow cut into your knee. Adding insult to injury, you suppose.
At the moment, you’ve summoned a stool to collapse upon, and Tom kneels in front of you, dabbing away the thick potion as you hiss and silently curse all of your wizarding predecessors and particularly Mulciber himself. The man in question stands quietly to the side, face puckered with intimidation after Tom just about tore into him with a scathing fury. Jean reads her book to the side, though you can tell she’s tense from her fingers which press patterns into her robes, her elbow twitching between resting on the desk and squeezing into her side.
“You guys can head in for the night,” Mulciber and Jean look up at you, “I’m sure we won’t get the salve completed tonight anyways.”
It’s easy to tell that they are thrilled to leave the tense room when they shoot up and skitter out the door, bags slung quickly over their shoulder in their haste.
The anger on Tom’s face has subsided, now, but irritation still lingers and you suspect it’s because you’ve thrown this week-long project into a two-day delay.
(You are wrong, everyone who was in the room including the man himself knows that Tom would likely never find it in himself to get angry at you. Not like this.)
“Sorry, Tom,” you say quietly. He says nothing, continuing to swipe lightly at your leg, which is mostly clean by now. A stinging red patch remains, with the single knick dripping a rivulet of blood down your leg. From your bag, he withdraws your barebones medi-witch kit. He’s just about to crack open the jar of numbing salve, but you’re quick to stop him.
“H-hold on, Tom. I can do it myself,” you fret, knowing the blotchy burn runs a little further up your robe than what he’s already pulled up.
At this, he finally graces you with a look.
“You’ve already made quite the mess today. I think I can take care of the clean-up.”
You’d hardly deign first-aid as clean-up, but you’ve already annoyed him enough today and can’t think of a good argument against him. Before you know it, he’s uncapped the jar and is smoothing the pleasantly cool solution over your knee. Letting your tired eyes slip closed, you allow Tom to continue with the numbing solution. You hadn’t realized it until now, but your shoulders were tensed in pain and are slowly slumping with the relief of the numbness on your leg.
Your relief is short lived after you start to feel his hands rise slightly further up your leg and you jerk backwards, nearly falling off the stool. The only thing that stopped you from probably cracking your head open is Tom’s sudden grip on your arm and even firmer grip on your--oh Merlin--leg, careful to avoid the burns. He’s quick to settle back before you can protest now, and runs his hand along your thigh, smoothing the solution evenly across your skin.
Is he looking a little smug there? You think he’s got a smirk playing on your lips when he glances up at your now flustered face. He’s really looking a bit smug as he trails his hand towards your inner thigh, barely brushing against the very edge of the burn (which ends where your skin hits the seat) and you most definitely start to feel indignant at how much he’s enjoying messing with you.
“Tom! If you don--If-if…” it’s really hard to focus when he’s rubbing your thigh like that. “If you don’t stop doing that right now, I swear to Morgana I’ll kick you,” you attempt to threaten confidently.
“I’m sorry,” he replies, innocent as a criminal in Azkaban, “I’m not sure what you mean. Doing what?”
At this point, he’s inching the hem of your robe even further up. To access the rest of the burn, of course.
_____
By the time the two of you leave the room, you’re beet red and steaming like a bun and Tom looks like he’s just taken a stroll by the lake. There’s a neatly wrapped bandage running up the length from your knee to your mid-thigh.